At the beginning of July, I discovered that there was an event that sparked passions, in the region as in much of France: the Tour de France.
I had noticed that the number of cyclists had suddenly tripled on the small roads of Luberon. I put this on the account of the school holidays which were beginning, and on the flow of tourists arriving in the region which was growing.
On Sunday morning Papet and I had a ritual that had been established over the weeks. I would pick him up at his place, take him in my little car to the village, where he bought his newspaper, and I would have a baguette for Mamée. I asked him one day why he didn’t get his favourite daily newspaper delivered. He answered me with an incomprehensible grunt. I understood the reason sometime later. This outing was an oppor
